fmm 



.WAYSIDE 



FLOWERS 



ii 




'ill! 
it" 






WAYSIDE FLOWERS. 




THE OLD HOUSE OER THE AVAY. Pag.- 119. 



a^^' 



V 



WAYSIDE FLOWERS 



QX 



E. A. KIMBALL 



■oA 



, MJL 14 188.V ) 



POR'ri.AXI), ME. 

HOYT, FOGG & DON HAM 

18S2 



T6 %.\h\ 



Copyrighted by E. A. Kimball, 1882. 



Thurston <6 Co., Printi-rs. 



CON 1 



The Shady Side 
Meurimac . 
llYE Beach 

SAltliATH BkLLS 
FlMZZLKS . 
EVENINO 

Coming 

The Cakes of the Woii 

When Bi.es^inos Fail 

The Ikon Lance 

Pockets 

No FuETTiNO IN Heaven 

A Mothek'.s Pr.AVKU 

Mv Favokites . 

On Stak Island 



ENTS 



7 
9 
11 
13 
15 
18 
20 
22 
24 
25 
28 
30 
32 
34 
30 



4 CONTENTS. 

In the Woods 38 

The Cardinal Fi-Oweh 41 

Harebells 42 

That Cat 45 

September 47 

Freddy 50 

Dead Leaves 54 

November 5(5 

Pansy 5S 

Nettles 00 

Sunset 02 

Fourth of July, 1875 65 

Violets 07 

To WiiiTTiER on His Seventieth Birthday . . .81 

The Last Night of the Year 88 

Thanks to my Sabbath School Class . . . ,8(5 

In October 88 

The Song of the Sea 92 

If in the Summer I should Die 94 



CONTENTS. 5 

Decoration Day ' 05 

A Kekpsake 98 

A Fakewell 101 

The Message 108 

SoxG. (Vek Ills Xaruow Bed 105 

WiiEX THE Nodding Lilies Blossom lOfi 

A Reply 109 

Lines in Memory of Daisy Patterson . . . .Ill 

A Medley 114 

Lines on a Fifth Anniversary 117 

The Old House o'er the Way 119 

TuK Legacy 124 

The Guardian Angel 125 



THE SHADY SIDE. 

I followed a little brook 

Along its winding way, 
Around by the woody hill, 

One quiet Sabbath dRj. 
'Twas winter, and here and then 

Lay drifts of whitest snow ; 
And icicles from the trees 

Hung, in a sparkling row. 

As adown the mossy rocks, 

With careful steps I went. 
By roots of an aged tree, 

Tangled, knotted, and bent, 
I saw green, beautiful ferns. 

Unharmed by winter's blast ; 
On the shady bank they grew. 

And limpid ripples passed. 



THE SUABT SIDE. 

Oh, ever along life's stream, 

For ferns, so green and fair, 
I'll look on the shady side, 

Among the roots of care. 
The purest and sweetest thoughts 

Spring from ashes of woe ; 
On the shady bank of life, 

The ferns and" mosses grow. 



MERRIMAC. 

O river, fair river ! 

Your waters free, 
Go dashing and flashing 

Down to the sea. 

O river, cahn river ! 

Peaceful and still, 
Now sliding and gliding 

By vale and hill. 

O river, true mirror 
Of sky and earth, 

Collecting, reflecting. 
Beauty and worth. 

O river, glad river! 

Your little waves 
Are glancing and dancing 

By new made graves. 



10 MEBEIMAC. 

O river, brave river ! 

You heed no shock; 
Rebounding, then rounding 

The mighty rock. 

O river, wise river I 
By town and lea 

Flow, preaching and teaching, 
Down to the sea. 



RYE BEACH. 

Home of my childhood! backward to tliee 
Memory wanders. There by the sea, — 
Lashed by its billows, that crash and roar, 
Breaking against huge rocks on thy shore, 
Foaming, and tossing its silver spray. 
Sighing and moaning by night and day, 
Dashing its sea-weed on the smooth beach, 
Leaving its shells on the sand to bleach. 
Catching the sunbeams' luminous flash. 
Kissed by fair moonbeams, its surges dasli ; 
Bearing the fisherman's boat so frail. 
And stately ships that gallantly sail. 
Singing a dirge for the loved and lost. 
Far, far beneath, by its currents tost, — 
Lying in beauty, peaceful and calm, 
B}' gray stones walled, is many a farm 
Fruitful and fair ; no thistle or weed 
Is ever allowed to run to seed. 



12 RYE BEACH. 

Thy murmuring brooks by rocks of flint, 

Cardinal flower and peppermint, 

The lovely ponds where white lilies blow, 

The woods where spruce and loft}^ pine grow, 

The harbor, its boats and buzzing mill. 

The naked trunks on Breakfast Hill, 

The large hotels and cottages fair. 

The bathers, rending with shouts the air. 

As a breaker strikes them unawares, 

Nor reveres the man of hoary hairs. 

For men of sixty, children of nine. 

Come screaming out of the drenching brine. 

The path I trod, on my way to school. 

Across the marsh, and through pastures cool. 

By the little yard where green grass waves 

Above my father's and mother's graves ; — 

All, all come back to my mind to-day. 

And I seem again a child at play. 

I see the faces I used to know. 

Like breath of clover, they come and go. 

Ah ! many have passed from earth away, 

The}' travel no more life's weary way. 

Home of my childhood I dear unto me. 

Lashed by the waves of the surging sea. 



SABBATH BELLS. 

Borne on the morning breeze, 

O'er leafless trees, 
Comes sound of Sabbath bells, 

Pealing, softly stealing. 
Gone. 

Now, wafted loud and clear. 
From steeples near 

A hearty welcome rings, 
Inviting, nor slighting 
One. 

Now soft, and sweet and low. 

Like gentle flow 
Of rills, come pleasing chimes. 

Singing, gladly ringing 
Praise. 



14 SABBATH BELLS. 

Now, like an organ grand 
Or martial band, 

The wondrous music swells, 
Resounding, in rounding 
Tones. 

Now, angel voices clear 
Methinks I hear 

Around the Heav'nly throne, 
Raismg anthems, praising- 
God. 

Ring, ye joyful bells, ring. 
Your pean sing 

Whene'er my weary soul 
Receding, goes speeding 
Home. 



FRIZZLES. 

As I go up and down the street, 
I notice ladies that I meet 

Wear frizzles. 

Here comes a woman short and fat, 
From underneath her black straw hat. 
Hang frizzles. 

And just behind her, tall and lean, 
A school-girl comes, just sweet sixteen. 
With frizzles. 

And now, a pretty mincing belle ; 
Soft, fickle ; they become her well, 

Those frizzles. 

One, stately, pure, is passing now ; 
Why will she wear on that true brow 
False frizzles ? 



16 FRIZZLES. 

And one whose cheeks have lost their tint, 
Is coming, in an eight-cent print 

And frizzles. 

A costly silk now rustles by, 
A velvet cloak and crimson tie, 

And frizzles. 

Old ladies, girls, the plain, the fair, 
With ev'ry hue and shade of hair 

Have frizzles. 

No matter whether round^ or thin, 
To go without must be a sin ! 

No frizzles? 

I think the men might wear them too, 
When holding plough or making shoe, 
Those frizzles. 



Imagine Rev'rend Beecher Burch, 
Next Sabbath in his spacious church. 
In frizzles ! 



FRIZZLES. 17 

The Doctor driving in his gig, 
And on his head a clumsy wig 

Of frizzles. 

The phigiie has spread so far and wide, 
I fear it always will abide; 

The frizzles. 

Unless be found some wondrous chana 
In fashion-plates, a healing balm 

For frizzles. 



EVENING. 

Oh, so soft, yet so bright, 
This peaceful moonlight, 

Robing earth in silver sheen ! 
Through invisible air. 
Pure, wondronsly fair, 

The glistening moonbeams stream. 

And so fleecy and' white, 
So airy and light. 

Are the graceful clouds at play, 
As between earth and sky 
They slowly go b}- 

And daintily float away. 

And the feathery snow 
On the ground below 

Is a garment fresh and clean, 
On the hill, in the lane, 



EVENING. 19 

Without spot or stain, 

Like an angel's robe, I ^veen. 

And so softly the breeze 
Trills through the bare trees, 

The music comes sweet and low, 
As tall, solemn, the}' stand, 
And with trembling hand. 

Their shadows write on the snoAV. 

Wafted now to my ear, 
In tones rich and clear. 

Are hymns from the praying band. 
As together they sing, 
And praise the Great King 

Who ruleth o'er sea and land. 

And my soul seems to rise 
In bliss to the skies, 

As they sing the songs I love. 
But the sweet voices cease, 
And a heav'nly peace 

Fills all my heart from above. 



COMING. 

Dming, I kno 
The breeze told me so, 

As beneath an oak I sat, 
And the faded brown leaves 
Dropped down from the trees. 

And spread for my feet a mat. 

She is coming, I know, 
The brook told me so. 

And onward its bubbles glanced 
As it rippled along 
It sang a glad song. 

And over its pebbles danced. 

She is coming, I know, 
The woodchuck said so, 

And into his hole he went, 
'Neath the roots of a tree, 



COMIXG. 21 

O, merry was he, 

And joy to my heart he sent. 

She is coming, I know, 
The robin said so, 

And caroled his sweetest tune ; 
Then the wild duck flew by, 
And a butterfly 

Came out to see if 'twas June. 

She is coming, I know ! 
Blow, warm breezes, blow, 

Rain down soft-falling showers I 
O, make haste, lovely Spring, 
Your bobolinks bring, 

And deck the fields with flowers. 



THE CARES OF THE WORLD. 

Alone, at close of summer day, 
Alone she knelt in her room to pray. 
The flesh was weak, her heart was sad, 
Her soul in robe of darkness was clad. 

All day the weary, toiling wife 
Had borne the burden of busy life ; 
And rough the path her feet had trod, — 
Rocks, thorns, tangled roots, uneven sod. 

With tearful eyes she knelt to pray, 

Alone at close of the toilsome day ; 

And as she knelt, a voice she heard, 

A calm voice whispered, " They choke the word. 

" The cares of earth, like thistles, spring 
Among the wheat, and but sorrow bring. 
It cannot grow 'mong noxious weeds, 
And bear ripe fruit, Christian words and deeds. 



THE CARES OF THE WORLD. 23 

"My erring child I long have sought; 
Long, long have you spent your strength for 

naught ; 
I made you feel the chast'ning rod, 
For the world was crowding out your God. 

"Throw off, my child, that load of care, 

No longer those heavy burdens bear." 
" Father, forgive ! " she humbly cried, 
" Forgive the sins of Thy erring child ! 

"I bow submissive, kiss the rod. 
Lay down my burdens, take back my God. 
Come, peaceful Spirit, from above, 
O, let me feel Thy pardoning love ! 

" O, cleanse my heart from ev'r}' sin. 
And make me whiter than snoAv, within." 
The Father heard her earnest cry. 
He answered the penitential sigh. 

He bade her, "Go, and sin no more, 
But onward press to the heav'nly shore. 
Let not earth's thistles choke the right. 
My yoke is easy, my burden light." 



WHEN BLESSINGS FAIL. 

When blessings fail, life, like a. tree 
When stript of leaves, may seem to be 

At first, devoid of beauty ; 
But much of beauty still remains, 
If we but smile at little pains, 

And b^^vely do our duty. 



THE "IRON LANCE." 

Written after reading "Eambles in Martinique," Harper's 
Magazine for January, 1874. 

Away from the north wind cold and bleak, 
In the lovely isle of Martinique, 
Where towering mountains rugged rise 
From surging ocean to sunny skies. 
From whose summits high, wild Avaters dash 
Through deep ravines, with silvery flash. 
And o'er naked cliffs mad torrents leap, 
And onward rush to the mighty deep ; 

Encircled b}' hills all green and fair, 
Near the charming town of St. Pierre, 
Is a garden vale ; a quiet place, 
Where flowers of palm trees interlace. 
And dark green leaves of the mango shake, 
As the zephyrs waft across the lake 
The fragrance sweet of orange and lime. 
While softh' below the ripples chime. 



26 THE IRON LANCE. 

Wherever green boughs and grasses meet. 
Forming a shady and cool retreat, 
In arbors along the calm lake's shore, 
With tamarind branches bending o'er. 
Along the banks of the limpid stream, 
Where the crystal bubbles glance and gleam. 
Wherever the leaves in shadow dance, 
There lurks the venomous " iron lance " ; 

And woe to hun, who, by day or night. 
Feels the crawling viper's poison bite. 
O, the world is full of vales like this. 
Where nothing seems to the youth amiss. 
Where trees of happiness fruit bestow. 
And flowers of pleasure bloom below. 
Where joy and mirth o'er life's waters glance. 
But, — ever there lurks the "iron lance." 

When he holds the wine-cup to his lips, 
'Mid laughter and mirth the liquid sips. 
When alluring beauty bids him stay, 
And his feet would linger in the way, 



TBE IRON LANCE. 27 

Where music calls to the merry dance, 
O, then and there is the "iron lance." 
Each charming spot it lurks within, 
A deadly serpent, — the viper sin. 



POCKETS. 

All over the land, in country or town, 

Nine men out of ten, from the President down. 

Have their hands in their breeches pockets. 

The merchant comes out of his palace store. 
As soon as his coat-tails are clear of the door, 
Down his hands go into his pockets. 

The statesman, with diamond pin in his shirt. 
And the Irish teamster all covered with dirt. 
Stop to rest with hands in their pockets. 

The shoemaker throws down apron and last, 
And home to his dinner is hurr3nng past 
With his hands in his trowsers pockets. 

The perfumed fop with cigar in his mouth, 
And the grey millionaire of the sunny south, 
Walk out with hands in their pockets. 



POCKETS. 29 

Perhaps 'tis a fashion that ne'er grows old, 
'Tis always the same, in hot weather or cold. 
All hands buried deep in the pockets. 



If the " Boss " and others, of " Tammany King," 
Had kept all their hands in their pockets? 

If the would-be murderer, clasping knife 
Or pistol, intending to take away life, 
Would put both his hands in his pockets, — 

Tlie drunkard, when longing to take a drink. 
Would let both his hands very quietly sink. 
And stay there, — down deep in his pockets. 

Soon crime would vanish away from the worlo, 
The fair temperance banner be unfurled. 
And policemen's hands in their pockets. 



NO FRETTING IN HEAVEN. 

We all have burdens to bear, 
Troubles, losses, heavy crosses, 
Dark clouds o'er our pathway drifting, 
Tliunders crashing, lightnings flashing, 
And God's grace the soul uplifting. 
Chaff from out the pure grain sifting, 
Through tears, heartache and care. 

Then murmur not, when dreary 
Your pathway lies 'neath gloomy skies ; 
Fretting makes no burden lighter. 
Brings no gladness, only sadness. 
Fretting makes your robe no whiter. 
Fretting makes your crown no brighter. 
Gives no rest when weary. 

But those you love, at even 

May long for rest in mansions blest, 

Where fretting will sadden never 



NO FBETTIXG IX HEAVEX. 

Their happy lot, O, then, fret not I 
Remember, while yet together, 
Death soon loving friends may sever, 
And none will fret in heav'n. 



A MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

Father ! by faith I bring my child to Thee, 
And thank Thee for the gift Thou gavest me, 
And ask for wisdom, patience, and Thy light, 
To teach my little one to love the riglit. 

O, may he early learn to love Thy Book, 
And early to my Blessed Jesus look, 
Nor shun the cross, but work with willing lieart, 
And others lead to choose the better part. 

I know the world is full of wickedness. 
Dear Saviour ! Thou wast once a boy, O, bless 
This little boy of mine, keep him from sin ; 
Knock at his heart till he shall let Thee in. 

Into his future life I cannot see. 

'Tis well, I hope, and leave it all with Thee. 

O, Holy Spirit, dwell my heart within. 

That I, to Christ, his precious soul may win ! 



A MOTUEE'S PliAYEB. 33 

Or, if ni}'- race of life be nearly run, 
Still I can say, Thy Avill, not mine, be clone. 
I know Thou over-rulest all for good, 
Thou givest to the sparrows daily food, — 

And Tliou wilt care for him, my little boy. 
I trust Thee, and find comfort, peace and joy ; 
For Thou art love. I thank Thee once again, 
That I can feel Thy way is best. Amen. 



MY FAVORITES. 

I love the moss, the velvet moss, 
Gold-green interwoven with brown ; 

In the woody dell it loves to dwell, 
Away from the noisy town. 

I love the fragrant pink and white 

Arbutns, first flower of spring; 
Down under the snow the sweet buds grow. 

When the birds begin to sing. 

I love the lowly running vine. 

With light-veined, heart-shaped, glossy leaves, 
With its blossoms white, and berries bright, 

Nestling close to roots of trees. 

I love the graceful, waving fern, 

And the modest violet blue, 
O, there's none too small ! God made them all. 

And giveth to each its hue. 



MY FAVORITES. 35 

A Father's care, a Father's love, 

I can read on every leaf. 
He sendeth the rain. He gives the grain, 

And He knows our inmost grief. 



ON STAR ISLAND. 

With aching heart on the rocks I stand, 
And mourn for one* of our happy band, 
Who sailed with us o'er the summer sea, 
Whose hiugh and song were joj^ous and free. 

We roamed o'er the isle, with nimble feet. 
We thought not of death, life seemed so sweet, 
We heard not the ocean's solemn moan, — 
I hear it now as I stand alone. 

O cold, treacherous, tidal wave ! 

O cruel, cruel sea ! 

You may sparkle and dash 

With brilliant flash, 

But methinks my schoolmate I see. 

Lying cold, pale and dead, 

In her rock-weed bed, 

*Miss Varrell of Rye, who was washed from Miss Underhill's 
chaii', by a tidal wave. 



ON STAR ISLAND. 37 

While the west wind sobs o'er the main, 

Telling of grief and pain, 

In her home on tlie shore. 

Where, forevermore. 

They will long for her love in vain. 

O schoolmate ! strange that you should be 
Tost by the currents of the sea. 
While I stand here alone to-day. 
And wipe the falling tears away. 

We roved in woods and meadows gay 
With flowers, raked the new-mown hay. 
Picked berries, gathered violets 
From dewy grass by rivulets. 

O cold, treacherous, tidal wave ! 

O cruel, cruel sea ! 

You may sparkle and dash 

With brilliant flash. 

But methinks my schoolmate I see, 

Lying cold, pale and dead, 

In her rock-weed bed. 

While the west wind sobs o'er the sea ! 



IN THE WOODS. 

Through the grassy lane I roam, 
Catching glimpse of sail and foam, 

To the green woods yonder lying, 
And the murmur of the sea, 
Song of bird and hum of bee, 

Blend with zephyrs softly sighing. 

Lovely woods of pine and spruce. 
Cones and tassels scattered loose 

Over rocks and massive ledges ; 
And the slender grasses nod, 
Graceful ferns and golden rod 

Wave between the granite edges. 

Soft green carpet underneath, 
Wrought in cluster, spray and wreath, 

Through the moss, the partridge twining. 
And the lilies frail and white. 
Droop o'er scarlet berries bright. 

On the light-veined leaves reclining. 



IN THE WOODS. 39 

Roots uptorn by winter's blast, 
With red lichens clinging fast; 

Tiny cups and cunning vases 
And long fringes hid away 
On old 'branches, brown and gray, 

In the quiet, shady places. 

Here the sweetest roses blow, 
Berries in abundance grow. 

Under branches gently swaying. 
Fragrance wafted on the air 
Comes to me from meadows fair. 

Where the laborers are hay 



nns. 



Rest and peace I seek to-day. 
Fling each earthly care away. 

Gather berries, vines and flowers. 
Watch the squirrels frisk about 
On the branches, in and out 

Through the pleasant, leafy boAvers. 

O, these woods to me are dear. 
For I know that God is here ! 
Ev'ry thing his wisdom showeth ; 



40 JiY THE WOODS. 

Lowly moss and rugged pine, 
Solid rock and creeping vine, 

E'en the grass the west wind bloweth. 

At His throne my spirit kn»els ; 
Peace into my bosom steals. 
" Father ! keep me meek and and lowly, 
Lead me in the narrow way. 
Never let me from Thee stray. 
Help me to be pure and holy ! 

" Oft my heart is faint and sore. 
And I want to love Thee more. 

Let me no unkindness cherish, 
Teach me daily how to live. 
Help me others to forgive, 

Let the poison weeds all perish I 

" Thanks to Thee for all I see ; 
Beauty brings me near to Thee I " 
And my heart, in bliss replying 
To the murmur of the sea, 
Song of bird and hum of bee. 
Ceases all its bitter crying. 



THE CARDINAL FLOWER. 

The brook winds througli the meadow, 

In the tangled copse it hides 
A moment, in the shadow, 

Then under the bridge it glides, 
And flows by the rock to a vine-wreathed bower, 
To bathe the feet of the cardinal flower, 
And reflect the intensely red raceme 
Of the gorgeous plant of the crystal stream. 

Where the shallow ripples flow, 

And the rushes interlace. 
She saw it brilliantly glow, 

I plucked it for her, my Grace. 
Long ago, for my darling wife, now at rest; 
Of all native blossoms, she loved this the best. 
O, well I remember that August day. 
The last time that ever we rode this way! 



HAREBELLS. 

Harebells, I have found you, 
Swinging in the breeze, 

Fragrant herbs around you. 
Under maple trees ! 

All your stems so slender, 
With their leafy fringe, 

Sunbeams warm and tender. 
Give a golden tinge ! 

When you lift your faces, 
Does the falling dew 

Note your silent graces. 
Pretty cups of blue? 

Modest little harebell, 
Won't you look at me? 

Don't you know I love well 
Your sweet purity? 



HAREBELLS. 43 

Nature has not stinted 

You in point of hue; 
Beautifully tinted, 

Dark veins running through! 

You've a gentle sweetness 

With a lofty mien, 
Delicate completeness. 

Lowly, yet a queen ! 

Wave within your bower, 

Graceful little bell; 
Of a charming flower 

That I love, I'll tell. 

Dignified, yet lowly, 

Modest, kind and true, 
Striving to be holy. 

Aiming good to do. 

Bluebell, you remind me 

Of her, I am sure ! 
Sweet the ties that bind me 

To this blossom pure. 



44 HABEBELL8. 

She, a gentle magnet, 
Draws the tender rays 

Of love's sunshme round her, 
By her winning ways. 

Home is made a bower 
By her cheerful care ; 

She, the queenly flower, 
Sways her scepter there. 



THAT CAT. 

She came one da}', with sorrowful wail, 
A black and white cat, with spotted tail ; 
For the baby's sake I let her stay, 
But wish her a thousand miles away. 

Ten minutes ago she made a jump, 
Down went my plants with a crashing thump 
I saved the fragments of this and that, 
And wished somebody would kill that cat. 

The other day I heard a clatter; 
Found on the floor my turkey platter 
All gone to smash, and that wicked thief, 
Stuffing herself with five pounds of beef. 

One night, I had just begun to doze, 
That hateful cat walked over my nose, 
And marched around over quilt and sheet, 
And left the tracks of her muddy feet. 



46 THAT CAT. 

On the kitchen lounge has sharpened claws, 
Till the covering is full of flaws ; 
And out in the shed, behind the door, 
Scratching and mewing, are kittens four. 

I think of it all witli aching heart. 
And think that the cat and I must part. 
Will some good woman who never frets, 
And has a hankering after pets. 

And cherishes cats with love untold. 
Take them? She's welcome. I will not scold. 
The baby loves her? Well, yes, I know; 
After all, I hate to have her go. 

He will miss her if she goes away. 

I don't want her, but the cat may stay. 



SEPTEMBER. 

The gleaming sunbeams quiver 
On the wavelets of the river, 
And western gold and zenith blue 

Are so completely blended, 
I know not where the gold begins. 

Or where the blue is ended. 

So Summer mingles with Fall. 

Unfolding its feathery ball 

Of smoke, the clematis rambles 

By fields of corn and clover, 
And harebells swing beside the wall, 

The wax-work straggles over. 

The gentian blooms by the rill, 
The purple aster on the hill. 
The valley is a gorgeous sea, 

With vari'gated billows, 
Where red and golden maples blaze 

Among green oaks and willows. 



48 SEPTEMBER. 

Branches with their fruitful load, 
Are bending o'er the dusty road, 
In the orchard and the forest 

Rich, warbled notes are ringing. 
And crickets in the meadow grass. 

From blade to seed are springing. 

Purple haze above the pond, 

Half hides the woody slope beyond. 

Where waves the summer golden-rod. 

In graceful, showy masses. 
And where the crimson sumacli glows 

Above the withered grasses. 

O Summer, can you not stay ? 
Dear songsters, will you fly away? 
O sweet wild-flowers, must you die ? 

I fain would have you linger, 
But fairest flowers first are touched 

By Autumn's icy finger. 

The birds will soon take their flight, 
And chilling winds the buds will blight 



SEPTEMBER. 49 

Shall we not then more highly prize 
The cheering sunshine given? 

So when our earthly joys depart, 
We think the more of heaven. 

Our need the Father knows best, 
We labor, and He gives us rest. 
We leave the footsteps of our Lord, 

While seeking worldly pleasures, 
He sends an angel in disguise, 

To show us priceless treasures. 

Find I no dividing line 

Between the Fall and Summer-time, 

So I would have my heav'nly joys 

With these completely blended. 
And have my future life begin. 

Before tliis life is ended. 



FREDDY. 

A mother watched two little feet 
Go swiftly down the village street; 

A little frock with buttons new, 
A cap on curls of golden hue. 

The mother watched her blue-eyed boy, 
With eyes that told her heart's deep joy, 

As off he ran, that sunny day. 
With pretty Bessie Green to play. 

She heard the rustling of the leaves 
O'erhead, against the cottage eaves. 

She saw the purple pansy meek. 
With tears upon its velvet cheek, 

Verbena, mignonette and phlox. 
Droop o'er the narrow garden walks. 



FREDDY. 51 

The flow'rs are sad to-day," she said, 
The breeze seems moaning for the dead. 

• September smiles, but ah ! I fear 
The blighting frost will soon be here. 

The wind through leafless trees will sigh, 
The lovely flowers soon must die." 

Alas ! the mother's words were true ; — 
The death-frost touched her spirit too. 

The little feet no more were seen 
Lightly to press the village green. 

She called her darling boy in vain 
Through days of anguish, nights of pain. 

Under a tree, among the flow'rs, 

He played with Bessie two long hours, 

Then said, "Goodbye," and all alone, 
Went through the gateway, started home. 



52 FREDDY. 

They knew no more. In vain they sought. 
The weeks rolled on, — the boy was not ! 

" He will not come," the mother said ; 
" My child, my only boy, is dead ! " 

When late October robed in brown 
The lofty trees, all loaded down 

With nuts, and squirrels frisked about. 
And boys, with laugh and merry shout, 

Filled bags and baskets, one had said, 
" We may, perhaps, find little Fred." 

And trudging through black mud and sand, 
Beside a ditch in meadow land, 

A gleaming button caught his eye ; 
" Why ! that was Freddy's ! " and a cry 

Of mingled joy and grief he gave, 
For he had found poor Freddy's grave. 



FREDDY. 53 

With throl)bing heart and trembling hand, 
He knelt, and scraped away the sand. 

Awe-stricken stood his mates around, 
Tears fell, but lips gave forth no sound. 

O small brown hands, O sunny hair! 
O precious one, so young, so fair! 

They bore the little form away, 
And laid it where the zephyrs play. 

Among the blossoms, rich and rare. 
Whose fragrance fills the summer air ; 

And sad-eyed velvet pansy weeps 
Aljove the grave, where Freddy sleeps. 



DEAD LEAVES. 

Silently flows the brook to-day, 

Over the dead leaves mixed with clay, 

Leaves that were green the other day. 

Leaves of crimson, russet and gold, 
Autumn robe of the lovel}^ wold 
Faded and rumpled, tattered, old. 

Heaped in corners, and whirled at will 
Of th' cruel north wind, sharp and chill. 
That shrieks around the woody hill, 

As he who robs a maiden's heart 

Of love, and through it thrusts a dart, 

Well pleased that he has caused the smart, 

So howls the wind tlirough tree-tops bare. 
Laughing, because no leaves are there; 
Leaves that are dying otherwhere. 



DEAD LEAVES. 65 

The limpid brook sings not to-day; 
It only whispers of decay, 
Then slowly, softly, glides away. 

O withered leaves ! to me you seem 
Like lost hopes sunken in life's stream ; 
The crumpled fragments of a dream, 

That blown about and scattered wide, 
And floating on love's ebbing tide. 
No longer in the heart abide. 

The years pass on. Love is the same, 
The hopes, the fears and bliss remain. 
And lovers only change in name. 

The leaves may fall, the dreams may go, 
But through eternity, we know 
The sea of love shall ebb and flow. 



NOVEMBER. 

There are five seasons, November is tlie last, 
The Lamentation of the year. 

The wold and toft their withered leaves have cast, 
And earth and sky are drear, 
Each raindrop is a tear. 

There were five children ; three brothers, sisters 
two. 

And all are dead but one. Alone 
He lies in anguish, upon a bed of rue. 

And maket|i ceaseless moan 

In low, sad monotone 

Through all the dismal night. Above the leaden 
main, 

When slowly creeps the tardy morn, 
No ra}' of comfort shines through clouds of pain ; 

There is no sunlit dawn 

For him, the sad forlorn. 



NOVEMBER. 57 

Adown the valley, the west wind whistles shrill, 
And fiercely does the north wind blow, 

And madly raves and shrieks the east wind chill, 
Now, wailing as they go, 
Now, sobbing out their woe. 

Dead are four seasons. November lingers, ill, 

But he has heard Death's solemn call, 

Soon will the children five be lying still ; 
And snowflakes cover all. 
With an unspotted pall. 



PANSY. 

She sat on a mossy hassock, 

Dead leaves all around her lay, 
I stood by a tree, and between us 

Ran the stream on its winding way. 
Her voice was like the melody 

Of the softly flowing brook, 
And her e3"es revealed the purity 

Of her heart in every look. 

She seemed like a dark-eyed pansy, 

Where purple and amber meet, 
Grace, sweetness and dignity blended. 

And I deemed her a woman complete. 
Unconscious of her loveliness. 

My elegant Pansy sat, 
Till the birches trembled with happiness, 

And a hazel bough kissed her hat. 



PANSY. 59 

Her small brown glove the shield-fern kissed, 

And the mosses kissed her feet, 
And through the ravine a sunbeam glanced 

With a kiss for her red lips sweet. 
Respectfully, with mute caress, 

Did zephyrs touch cheek and brow. 
The maple outspread its hands to bless, 

A chickadee sang on the bough. 

Now, as I tread the narrow path, 

That skirts the tangled ravine, 
I think I hear gentle voices call 

For their beautiful dark-eyed queen ; 
And I my voice with theirs unite, 

For I love their graceful friend. 
And again our Pansy we invite 

To come to the mossy bend. 



NETTLES. 

Through all the Summer and the Fall, 

A nettle stood beside the wall, 

An ugly nettle, lean and tall ; 

I pitied, touched the loneh^ thing, 

And learned its mission was to sting. 

The momentary smart was keen. 
But sharper is the sting, I ween. 
Of bitter word, and scornful mien. 
No contact needs the nettle lance 
That can be given in a glance. 

From heart and eye to eye and heart, 
There flashes an electric dart 
Invisible; it does impart 
The truth, and soul may surely know, 
The friendly soul from soul of foe. 



NETTLES. 61 

Some nettles rank, more than tlieir share 
Of piercing stings about them bear, 
And use them always, ev'rywhere, 
And oft the chain of friendship break ; 
And tears must fall, and hearts must ache. 

Some nettles use the sting at home, 
To keep the household in a foam, 
And would conceal it when they roam ; 
But find the wearing of the mask, 
Is not a very easy task. 

Sometimes the prickles needful are. 
Intruders from the heart to bar. 
When they its purity Avould mar. 
But thorny nettles should beware, 
How they the hearts of others tear. 



SUNSET. 

Written for the golden wedding of Dea. and Mrs. James 
Davis, March 23, 1875, 

The longest life is like a summer day, 

So swiftly do its moments glide away. 

The eastern sky of amber-colored light, 

Where softly gleams the splendid morning star. 
Soon turns to rosy hues more fair and bright, 

And blushing ocean, river, brook and mar. 
Reflect the glory of the early dawn. 
The lambent glory of the crimson morn. 

So the dim hopes of childhood brighter grow. 
And ever with increasing luster glow 
Through youth, till the roseate sky of love 

Imparts a glory to all common things. 
And common things reflect the light above. 

So wondrous is the charm of love, that brings 
Two hearts into communion sacred, sweet, 
Two trusting hearts in unison to beat. 



SUNSET. 03 

When holy vows unite the two in one, 
The rising sun proclaims the day begun; 
The world unto the newly married pair 

With radiance is flooded. Fairly tinged, 
The threat'ning clouds of sorrow, toil and care, 

That in the distance rise, are silver-fringed, 
So lustrous is the ray that onward darts, 
So hopeful is the love of happy hearts. 

Through fifty pleasant, peaceful years of life, 
Together, faithfully have man and wife 
Their duty done. And now the interlude 

Has come. This is the sunset hour. Its light 
Is not less beautiful because subdued. 

The purple clouds now floating into sight. 
Increase the grandeur of the setting sun. 
They are the emblems of a vict'ry won. 

A noble victory, for they have been 
Led by God's grace to triumph over sin; 
To patiently endure the little ills 

That vex the soul, and fret its peace away. 
And now the heart with thankful rapture thrills, 



64 SUNSET. 

Upon tliis joyful, golden wedding day, 
That God has gently led through sun and rain, 
That He has kindly kept through joy and pain. 

Now friends with children and grandchildren 

meet, 
These aged Christian travelers to greet. 
These parents, looking on their noble sons 

And faithful daughters, can but feel 
That God has smiled upon their little ones. 

For whom the}^ toiled and prayed with trust- 
ing zeal. 
Their children honor those who gave them birth, 
And gratefully recount their parents' worth. 

This is the sunset hour. Love's golden beams. 
Though not so brilliant as in morning dreams, 
With mellow light illume the fading day. 

And after sunset, may a long twilight 
Of happiness succeed, to pass away 

Into a quiet evening star-bedight. 
Each star a promise by the Father given, 
Their souls to strengthen, cheer and guide to 
heaven. 



FOURTH OF JULY, 1875. 

Ring, ring, village bell ! 
Your thanks for liberty ring, 
Awaken the echoes of the wold, 
For freedom is ninety-nine years old, 
On this Independence day. 

Ring, ring, joyful bell ! 

For liberty -peal and ring, 

Wild birds are caroling sweet and clear. 

And th' bark of the faithful dog I hear, 

It is the Fourth of July. 

Ring, ring, happy bell ! 

Cheerily, cheerily ring. 

The boys are out for frolic and fun, 

The toot of horn and the boom of gun 

Welcome the Fourth of July. 



66 FOURTH OF JULY, 1875. 

Ring, ring, neiglib'ring bells ! 

Of liberty talk and ring; 

Talk to each other over the hills, 

And th' breeze shall whisper it to the rills, 

That gladly ripple to-day. 

Ring, ring, all ye bells ! 

For liberty loiidl}' ring; 

All over the Union chant and ring, 

In every city chime and sing. 

Ring merrily all at once. 



Slowly and tenderly ring. 
Toll mournfully o'er the land your sobs, 
For th' heart of a mighty nation throbs 
At the memory of her dead. 

Ring, ring Union bells ! 

For freedom thankfully ring, 

In a chorus grand your voices raise. 

And bear to heaven a hymn of praise, 

Of praise to the Lord our King. 



VIOLETS. 

Ill a pasture beside the broad Atlantic, 
Among- the spruces and the rocks gigantic, 

Early in balmy INIay, 

A little child at play, 

Found by a tiny rivulet, 

A solitary violet, 
'Neath withered leaves half hid away. 
Blue as th' sea on a summer day. 

And to her tender heart. 

The flower did impart 
Mysteriously each year to be renewed, 
A flower-love perennial, joy-imbued. 

(In the meadow, by the rill, 
Sky blue violets grow ; 
In the wood and on the hill. 

Purple violets blow. 
Is it purple or blue? 



68 VIOLETS. 

Or a perfect blending of tlie two 
Into elegant violet hue?) 

Years passed, and the child to a fair maiden 

grown, 
In a shadj retreat was kneeling alone, 
And from cool mosses green, 
With the twin-vine between, 
At the foot of a beech tree old. 
Picked violets yellow as gold; 
(Amber violets pale and bright 
Like varied tints of sunset light). 
And sadly thought of him. 
Who false to her had been, 
And the violets saw the hot tears that fell, 
As the maiden pondered alone in the dell. 

Each heart has sorrows and pains, 

All have burdens to bear ; 
Because of its penciled veins, 

Is th' violet less fair? 
Does pain heart-beauty mar? 
Or is it purer and sweeter far, 
When meeklv borne sorrow leaves a scar ? 



VIOLETS. GO 

God gives His children strength and grace, 

Afflictions to endure, 
His fingers the dark veinings trace 

Upon heart-petals pure ; 
And her heart, like a pale golden violet. 
Was lovelier for delicate lines like jet, 
For, the soul in distress. 
She could pity and bless, 
And stript of pride and selfishness, 
Her heart of beauty had not less ; 
And one who long her worth had known, 
Courted and won her for his own ; 
His sunshine, helpmeet, wife, 
And they their wedded life 
Began with mutual love and confidence, 
Well mixed with kindness, patience, and com- 
mon sense. 

Love like scent of violets white. 
Pleasant, but not too sweet. 

For a passionate love and light. 
Is certain to be fleet; 



70 VIOLETS. 

It does not calmly bear, 

And extenuate the wear and tear, 

Of vexing trifles and daily care. 

But love that is steady and strong, 
And based on common sense, 

Will surely yield happiness long. 
And hearts that it cements. 

Till death will firmly united be, 

Nor seek for a new affinity. 

Thrice had the apple-tree its tinted snowflakes 

shed, 
Thrice had the wind-flower bloomed since they 
were wed, 

When Sunshine and their boy 
Went often to enjoy 
The soul-refreshing solitude, 
And soothing music of the wood. 
To bask in sunlight heaven-sent. 
The mother with her lot content. 
Having no ambition, 
For another mission, 



VIOLETS. 71 

Than that which to wife and mother is given, 
The making of home a miniatui-e heaven. 

Oft they wandered to the meadow, 

Lingered in the bowers, 
Where the sun-besprinkled shadow. 

Flits among the flowers, 
Resting the weary feet. 
Breathing the genial air replete 
With perfume faint of wild flowers sweet ; 

And Alfred gathered quickl}-. 

Dandelions scattered thickly 
In the grass, each one a gem, 
Snatched the bloom without the stem. 
And filled his mother's lap with them. 
Brought them in his chubby fist. 

For his mother's pleasure. 
And his rosy face she kissed. 

And kept each stemless treasure. 

Then she talked to him of God, 

Who made the flowers that deck the sod. 

Of Him who governs sea and land. 



72 VIOLETS. 

In language he could understand, 
While she plucked the blossoms she loved so 

dearly. 
Blue and white violets she gathered yearl}^, 
Placed them in her vases, 
Where their pleasant faces, 
The beauty of their home enhanced. 
And cheered her as at them she glanced. 
While she performed with nimble hand 
The work her brain before had planned, 
Or as from books she sought. 
To harvest precious thought. 
And garner it, believing it her duty, 
To mingle with labor, wisdom and beauty. 

O the blessed love of flowers ! 

How it cheers the lonely heart, 
How it shortens weary hours. 
What true joy does it impart, 
To those who roam. 
Where dewdrops gleam 
On mossy banks 
Of the limpid stream, 



VIOLETS. 73 

That crinkles and turns 

To kiss the feet 

Of delicate ferns, 

That quiver and thrill, 

As the bobolinks trill 

Their gushing harmony ; 

And the fascinated rill, 
In the hollow, for a moment, 

Listens, standing still. 
Then echoes the wondrous melody, 
As it dances down the hill. 

In the country flowers blow. 

Freely bloom for great and small 
Let them not unheeded grow ; 
Seek for them, ye mothers all 

In the forest 

Where nestling vines 

Creep and cover 

The roots of tall pines, 

Whose branches swing, 

As the breezes sing 



74 VIOLETS. 

Of quiet and rest, 
And smooth the lines 
Of care from the Brow, 
While peace steals into the breast. 

Let the children cull them too. 

For a flower-love within 
The heart, will it with bliss imbue, 
Leaving much less room for sin, 
O let them rove 
In free delight 
Through croft and grove. 

Where wild-flowers bright 
Befleck the ever-Avaving green 

Of dale and lea, 
And robins flit the boughs between 
Of shrub and tree, 
And nature, with manifold voices, 
In the wisdom of God rejoices. 

In her chamber, pale and weak, the mother lay. 
Through the open window came the breath of May 
Delicious and replete 



VIOLETS. 75 

With bird-song wilcll}^ sweet, 
Mingled with sweeter sounds of glee, 
The voices of her children three. 
As in the field they early sought 
The vernal blossoms which they brought, 
On tiptoe to her room, 
And left the fragrant bloom, 
Softly, while she slept, where, waking, she would 

see 
Their gifts, and say, " Th' dear ones gathered them 
for me," 

Then in silence went away. 
Their father kind to tell, 
" They some violets had found, 
To make poor mother well." 
Each met he with caress, 
And said in his heart, " O Lord, I bless 
Thy name, that they are not motherless." 

For he thought of the day when his wife in th' heat 
Of fever, had talked of a quiet retreat, 

Where grasses cool should wave 

Above a long, low grave, 



76 VIOLETS. 

On whicli the nightly dews should fall, 
O'er which a weeping willow tall, 
Should gracefully its branches spread, 
And sweetly, sweetly overhead. 
The birds would ever sing. 
And 'twould be always spring. 
And daily fresh violets scattered would be 
On the grave, by a man and his children three. 
He had deemed that she might pass 

Forever from his life ; 
The mother of his little ones. 
His precious, patient wife ; 
O, could he let her go? 
Could he drink the bitter cup of woe ? 
In weakness he answered, " No, O no I " 

" An iron hand all barbed with hooks. 
Seems clutching my poor heart; 
O Grief, remove thy crushing hand ! 
O Death, from us depart I 

" Roll back ihj swift, on-coming flood, 
And thy dark billows stay; 



VIOLETS. 77 

Tlie cherished center of our home, 
Bear not from earth away ! 

" The violet within the dell 

Would bloom, though she were gone. 
The grass would spring, the birds would sing, 
But I should be forlorn. 

"No more her tender voice to hear. 
No more her smile to see ! 
Our little children motherless, 
O no, it must not be ! " 

Then he thought of each hasty word he had said 
To the woman he loved, who would soon be dead. 
"O if she could but live, 
O if she would forgive 
Each unkind word ! Too late, too late, 
Our home will soon be desolate ! 
And can I, must I say ' Goodby ' ? 
O Lord, her God, to Thee I cry! 
O grant me grace to bow 
Submissive to Thee now ! 



78 VIOLETS. 

O God ! to my heart teach the pray'r of Thy Son, 
Not my will, not my will, but Thine, Lord, be 
done." 

But the danger now was past; 

The awful rushing tide 
Of death had turned, and she with them 

Yet longer could abide. 
He felt his bosom thrill 
With joy, for the wife and mother still 
Her place in their happy home would fill ; 
And his heart sent up its tribute of praise 
To God, for the lengthening of her days. 



AN AFTERTHOUGHT. 

Mud, mud, and a shallow stream and small. 

So sluggish it hardly moves at all 

Where steeple-bushes stand stiff and bare, 

But gurgles a little just out there 

By the oil-nut, where it trickles down 

Over the stones and the oak leaves brown, 

Down to the mosses so green below ; 

But here you can scarcely hear it flow ; 

It halts in ev'ry hollow and track. 

And the mud is soft and deep and black. 

Ah, that was a month ago I now look ! 
The lialting stream is almost a brook, 
And the mud is nowhere to be seen. 
For the clear rill flows o'er grasses green. 
Now look again! and what have you found? 
Sweet white violets blooming around ; 
Fair and sweet in each hollow and track. 



80 AN AFTEETHOUGET. 

And sweet and pure where tlie mire was black. 

O, little 3^ou thought, a month ago, 

That these fragrant treasures here would blow ! 

Well ! places of a similar kind. 

In our lives, we're pretty sure to find. 

We look at the mud and fret and sigh, 

No good can we see ; but, by and by. 

If we can wait — if we will but look, 

The truth shall flow like a limpid brook. 

Yes, if we look, we shall surely see 

The grasses bend where the stream runs free; 

From blackest mire we may gather yet 

A beautiful, fragrant violet. 



TO WHITTIER ON HIS SEVENTIETH 
BIRTHDAY, DEC. 17, 1877. 

The poets have woven thee a crown, 

Thy praises the people sing; 
May r bring thee from thy native town, 

A wild-flower offering? 

A few green ferns, a buttercup bright. 

And violets blue as th' skies, 
From fields where the " Barefoot Boy " once 
played, 

Methinks thou wilt not despise. 

O, sweet is the sound of th' laughing brook. 
And the whisper of the breeze. 

And carol of birds, but sweeter far, 
Thy melody is than these. 

O, grand is the awful thunder's voice. 
Grand is the boom of the sea. 



82 WniTTIERS BIRTDBAY. 

But not less grand is th' voice of a man 
Who speaketli for liberty. 

As pure as the calla's waxen cup, 

Is the record of thy years ; 
And a calm, unshaken trust in God, 

On every page appears. 

And old Pentiicket may well be proud 

Of her noble-hearted son, 
And add her humble offering. 

To the garlands thou hast won. 



THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR. 

The few remaining moments 
Of til' year are going fast, 

'Tis meet to pause and ponder 
Upon its moments past, 

And backward o'er our pathway, 
A searching look to cast. 

This 3^ear has not mucli differed 

From other happy years. 
We've had no great affliction. 

And it to me appears, 
We've had a 3-ear of sunshine, 

Few troubles and few tears. 

Our God has sent us blessings 

Unnumbered, ev'ry day ; 
His hand has gently held us. 

Nor suffered us to stray 



84 THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR. 

Far into sin, but led us 
To trust Him day by day. 

Our home has not been entered 
By death, we all are here ; 

Our children have been healthy 
Throughout the present year ; 

And you, dear wife, my helpmeet ! 
Have filled our home with cheer. 

We've had our little trials, 

Each day has brought its care; 

Sometimes we've been impatient, 
Forgotten to forbear; 

Of murmuring and fretting, 
I know I've done my share. 

Sometimes we've spoken harshly 
Words we should not have said, 

And afterward repented. 
And tears of sorrow shed ; 

But each has each forgiven, 
All unkind words are dead. 



THE LAST NIGHT OF THE TEAR. 85 

We've oft neglected duty, 

And oft unfaithful been, 
Our hearts like untilled gardens, 

Are full of weeds within, 
But Jesus' blood can cleanse us 

From all indwelling sin. 

And now we'll kneel together. 

To him our sins will tell; 
We'll thank God for His goodness. 

He hath done all things well. 
The old year is departing, 

Farewell, old year, farewell ! 



THANKS. 

To my Sabbath-school class for a silver butter-dish, Jan., 1876. 

This silver gift has spoken 
Your kind regard for me, 

I thank you for the token 
Of friendship ; it will be 
A magic glass, in which my class 
I evermore shall see. 

Eight animated faces. 

As yet untouched by care. 

And many winning graces, 
And aspirations fair. 
Hearts true and pure, all these I'm sure, 
I find reflected there. 

And mirrored in it plainly. 
Can I refuse to see 



THANKS. 87 

The truths (I hojDe not vainly), 
You've oft rehearsed to me ? 
O, may my life with deeds be rife, 
That shall with them agree. 



IN OCTOBER. 

The morning air is sweet, 

And with melody replete ; 
The chirp of cricket, hum of bee. 
The cheerful song of chickadee. 
The low of kine upon the ridge. 
The softened rumbling of the bridge, 
The distant engine's whistle shrill. 
That wakes the echoes of the hill. 
The shouts of schoolboys far away. 
The bell that calls them from their play. 
The pleasant rustling of the leaves 
In arbors, where the wild grape weaves 
A tangled roof of fruit and vine ; 
The zephyrs sighing through the pine. 
The tinkling where the waters meet, 
Unite in harmony complete. 



IN OCTOBER. 89 

Clear is the soft blue sky, 

Save where, in the east, there lie 

Thin clouds, the dainty veil of white 

Lost off by Summer in her flight. 

O'er hill and dale, from chilling breath 

Of Autumn, whispering of death, 

She fled, and as she swiftly passed. 

Her mantle on the trees she cast, 

And, as Elijah's mantle, fraught 

With power, to Elisha brought 

His spirit doubled, so hers came, 

And set the forests all aflame 

With gorgeous tints, and now they blaze 

As though condensed were all the rays 

Of sunshine, that to June were giv'n. 

And through the trees sent back to heav'n. 

But listen ! what is that ? 

That shivering rat-tat-tat. 
That rustling full of pathos wild, 
As the sad sobbings of a cliild 
Who yearns for words of tenderness, 

7 



90 IN OCTOBER. 

So oft denied the motherless? 

See ! yonder ehn has loosed its hold 

Upon its ripened leaves of gold, 

And cast them as a poet strows 

His golden thoughts. A light wind blows 

The quivering leaves which moan and cry, 

As in the air they whirl and fly, 

Pause, tremble, flutter and descend, 

While through bare boughs the soft winds send 

A prelude to what is to be. 

When wailing tempests strip each tree. 

And do you question whence 

Cometh the sweet influence 
That permeates all things, as dew 
Invisibly steals in and through 
The thirsty leaf, the wilting flow'r? 
It is the tranquilizing pow'r 
Of Summer over Autumn shed, 
Like that which long survives the dead. 
And when our dear ones from us go, 
Alleviates the bitter woe 



IN OCTOBER. 91 

That else would crush us. They are not ; 
Yet from the world, death cannot blot 
Their influence, and mem'ry still. 
With their sweet presence seems to fill 
Our homes, as summer now pervades 
Hills, valleys, fields, and forest glades. 



THE SONG OF THE SEA. 

I sit within a shady nook, 
And listen to the shallow brook 

That slowly ripples by, 
It faintly tinkles at my feet, 
A song with gladsome sounds replete, 
Nor breathes a pensive sigh ; 
But I long, I long to hear the song 
Of the mighty waves wliich roll along 
The Atlantic shore ; — the awful crash 
Of breakers that foam and roar and dash 
The song of the restless, heaving sea. 
Is the grandest of all songs to me. 

I hear the whisper of the breeze. 
That lightly through o'erarching trees. 

Sends music soft and low ; 
I hear the joyous caroling 
Of birds that make the wild-wood ring, 

Their songs are sweet, I know; 



TIJE SONG OF THE SEA. 03 

But O, I. long for tlie solemn song 
Of surging billows, which break along 
The Atlantic shore ; — the thunder deep, 
Of rock-met surges, that wildly leap 
High into air. O, dear unto me, 
Is the ceaseless moan of the rolling sea. 



IF IN THE SUMMER I SHOULD DIE. 

If in the summer I should die, 
When shrouded for the grave I lie, 
O gather from some quiet dell 
The sweet wild flowers I love so well, 
The ferns and vines and mosses green, 
And place them my cold hands between ; 
Their loveliness I shall not see, 
Their fragrance will not waken me. 
But to the living they will say, 
" Although we perish and decay, 
When God shall call us from the skies, 
We from the dust shall quickly rise 
To blossom in some quiet dell, 
Forever with the Lord to dwell." 



DECORATION DAY. 

[Song and Response] 

This is a day of peace ! 
Let party hatred cease, 

And bitter strife. 
Let Peace her scepter sway ! 
Throughout our land to-day, 
INIay pride be swept away 

And love be rife. 

Response — 

This day shall party wrangling cease; 
To-day, our watchword shall be Peace. 

Our nation will to-day, 
A floral tribute lay 

On each low grave, 
Of those who fought so well, 
Rebellious foes to quell, 



96 BECOBATION BAY. 

Wlio bravely fought, but fell, 
Our land to save. 

Response — 

We decorate each soldier's grave, 
Who gave his life our land to save. 

They fought for liberty ! 
What the result would be 

They could not see. 
They died, but not in vain, 
Their death was freedom's gain, 
For, broken is the chain 

Of slavery. 

Response — 

Our comrades, dying, could not see, 
, Which side would gain the victory. 

Long may our banner float 
O'er graves near and remote, 

Where rest the brave ; 
And while of them we sinsf. 



DECOBATION BAY. 97 

Our grateful offering 
Of garlands bright, we bring 
For every grave. 

Jle8po7ise — 

And as we deck the soldier's grave, 
We pray, may God the Union save. 



A KEfiPSAKE. 

To Miss M. E. N. 

I have among my keepsakes, 

A little gift of hair, 
All deftly wound and woven 

Into leaves and blossoms fair; 
The words " My Class " are written, 

One word on either side 
Of th' knot of rosy ribbon, 

With which the flowers are tied. 

My class! for which I deem it 

A treasure fair to own, 
For that I highly prize it. 

But 'tis not for that alone. 
This precious gift of flowers. 

Most lovingl}^ I hold. 
For, here the friend who made it, 

I shall never more behold. 



A KEEPSAKE. 99 

With slender, wasted fingers, 

And failing strength she wrought; 
Ah ! who knows but Death's message 

Was the sooner to her brought 
Because of this ? Oh, sadly 

I gaze on it to-daj, 
And fast my tears are falling, 

For the girl who passed away. 

She and her sister, often, 

Together came to read 
With me, of Bunyan's Pilgrim, 

Or the valiant Avord and deed 
Of knights of good King Arthur, 

And many poems sweet ; — 
Her sister, in the twilight. 

Now, alone, comes up the street. 

Wild birds are sweetly warbling. 

Among the forest trees ; 
We used to sing together. 

With her hands upon the keys ; 



100 A KEEPSAKE. 

Her cheeks the warm blood flusliiiig, 
Methinks I see her now, 

Her eyes so brightly beaming, 
And dark ringlets on her brow. 

I miss her, but in heaven 

I hope again to see 
The friend, whose wasted fingers 

Made this Christmas gift for me. 
And heaven will be the dearer, 

If, at its pearly gate. 
To greet me at my coming, 

She will watch for me, and wait. 



A FAREWELL. 

Presented to Dea. and Mrs. J. D. jr., on the death of tlieir 
daugliter, Grace Mabel, who died April 8, 1878, aged six years, 
eight mouths. 

Weary so soon '! poor little one I 
Her tender feet had just begun 

Life's pleasant paths to tread. 
Weary ! an angel brought relief 
To her, but filled our hearts with grief; 

Our darling child is dead. 

(rod knows it all. His ways are best, 
The soul, in trusting Him, is blest ; 

The wounded, bleeding heart 
His love can heal, — but yet, to-day, 
Our tears must fall, and lips will say, 

'Tis hard with her to part. 



102 A FAREWELL. 

And yet we must ! Dear little Grace ! 
Her soul has found its resting-place, 

God doetli all things well. 
"We fold her hands across her breast, 
And lay the dear form down to rest. 

Farewell, sweet child, farewell. 



THE MESSAGE. 

Did you call me ? Was I dreaming ? It was long 

before daybreak, 
In the stillness of the morning, ere the robins 

were awake. 

I was sleeping, soundly sleeping, when your ear- 
nest, pleading call, 

'Woke me, coming through the silence, though I 
heard no sound at all. 

Not a syllable was uttered, and you called me 

not by name. 
But I waited for the message, and from you to 

me it came. 

As the permeating sunshine of a clear October 

day, 
Wraps the earth in mellow glory, driving chilly 

mists away, 



104 THE MESSAGE. 

Till the violets of springtime bloom again beside 

the rill, 
So your silent, unseen message did its mission 

sweet fulfil. 

All the chilly apprehensions vanished quickly out 

of sight. 
And the happy thoughts upspringing, blossomed 

welcome to the light. 

As the traveler passing onward in the last days 
of July, 

By its own delightful fragrance, knows the ground- 
nut vine is nigh. 

So I knew that you were near me, near in spirit, 

near in thought. 
By the pleasant, mystic perfume of the message 



And I knew that when I met you, you would 

greet me with a smile. 
And my heart would beat more lightly, for the 

harbinger, meanwhile. 



OVER HIS NARROW BED. 

Song. 
Over liis narrow bed 

Wintry winds are sweeping, 
Over the new-made grave 

Where my boy is sleeping. 
Cease, then, ye cruel winds ! 

Cease your doleful sighing, 
Blow softly o'er the grave, 

Where my boy is lying. 

No longer can I bear 

Your dirge, wild and dreary; 
Deep is his grave and cold, 

I am sad and weary; 
O, then ye wintry winds! 

Cease your dismal crying. 
Make not more dark the grave 

Where my boy is lying. 



WHEN THE NODDING LILIES 
BLOSSOM. 

Where the hill slopes to the river, 

Tall and stately, in the grass. 
Grow the pleasant, nodding lilies, 

You can see them, as you pass 
At a distance, by the gleaming, 

As the breezes sink and swell, 
By the gleaming in the sunlight. 

Of each swaying, golden bell. 

You have heard the bells a-chiming 
In some far-off city tow'r? 

Have you heard the sweeter music 
Which accompanies this flowV, 

As it vibrates, nods and trembles 
On its slender, graceful stem. 



WHEN THE NODDING LILIES BLOSSOM. 107 

As it swings among the grasses, 
Like a precious diadem ? 

No ? then close your eyes and listen ! 

Let your inmost senses drink 
All the trilling, tuneful sweetness, 

Of yon merry bobolink ! 
O, you hear that song, my farmer, 

All the busy haying time, 
And these lilies wave and quiver 

To his mellow, rippling chime. 

You remember how we wandered 

Round the hill one sunny day. 
By the barley, through the red-top, 

Picking lilies on the way ? 
How the river wavelets sparkled. 

How the birds sang out their joy I 
And beside us, birds-nest hunting. 

Trudged a little barefoot boy. 



108 WUEN TEE NODDING LILIES BLOSSOM. 

All ! if sometime in the future, 

Death should take me from you, then. 
When the nodding lilies blossom, 

You will gather them again ; 
Just a few, because I loved them 

In the happy, bygone days, 
When we walked in peace together, 

In life's fair, sequestered ways. 



A REPLY. 

To Mrs. L. M. D. 

My lily was a simple gift, yet glad 

Am I that with it you were pleased. You speak 

Of memories that shall make glad my heart 

When I am old ; the thought of deeds well done. 

Alas I I fear it will not be ; for, deeds 

That I should do, are often left undone, 

And when I would do good, some evil thought. 

Perchance of self-sufficiency, or fear 

Of misconstruction, from the good detracts, 

Or hinders it. But howsoe'er may seem 

My own life held in retrospect, I know 

The memory of you, my aged friend. 

And your long life of loving usefulness 

Within the church, or at your own fireside, 

(So free from stain, that in the dozen years 

That I have been your neighbor, not one word, 

Condemning act of yours, has reached my ear), 



110 A BEPLY. 

Will be to me a flow'r more fair and sweet, 
Than all the fairest lilies of the earth. 
When dies the flow'r, its perfume also dies ; 
But fragrance of a life like yours, will live, 
How long, eternity alone can tell. 



LINES. 

In memory of Daisy Patterson. 

Through all the land, on charger fleet, 

There rides an archer bold, 
He pauses not for wind or sleet, 

He minds not heat or cold. 
He gallops all the dreary night, 

Adown the world's highway, 
Alike to him the dark and light. 

As speeds he on his way. 

With steady hand his bow he bends. 

With aim unerring, dart 
The poisoned arrows, which he sends 

Directly to the heart. 
Nor turns aside this warrior bold 

For kings his charger pale. 
He recks not of the rich man's gold. 

He heeds not sorrow's wail. 



112 LINES. 

A flow'r among us fair and sweet, 

A few short summers blushed, 
But onward came the pale horse fleet, 

His foot our Daisy crushed. 
Our hearts are sad. Our eyes will fill 

With tears, as we deplore 
The loss of one, who, cold and still, 

Sleeps now, to wake no more. 

No more? But there will come a day. 

When Death shall conquered be. 
When he no more the world's highway 

Will ride, so bold and free. 
Sleeps? But the spirit goes to God; 

Our faith must look above 
The gloomy grave, the frozen sod. 

To God, for He is love. 

Not always will the grave retain 
Its victims, they will rise, 

When Christ to earth shall come again 
Triumphant, from the skies. 



LINES. 113 

The Nazarene victorious 

Once died, but lives again, 
He'll vanquish Death, and, glorious 

In majesty, shall reign. 



A MEDLEY. 

strung togethei- from Longfellow's Table of Contents. 

" The Evening Star " is shining- 
Over "The Hemlock Tree," 
" Tlie Spanish Jew " is telling 
" The Secret of the Sea," 
To " Hawthorne" wise, who listens 

Within "The Wayside Inn," 
While mournfully are tolling 
The solemn " Bells of Lynn." 

" The Sea hath its Pearls," and " Flowers ' 

Are blooming far below, 
" The Birds of Passage " are singing 

While "The Four Winds" softly blow, 
" To a Driving Cloud " above them, 
" The Song of the Silent Land," 
And " Victor Galbraith " kindles 
A " Driftwood Fire " on the sand. 



A MEDLEY. 115 

Beside " The Open Window," 
"Sir Humphrey Gilbert" stands, 
Humming " A Christmas Carol," 

A " Sonnet " in his hands. 
And " Blind Bartinieus " mutters, 
"• It is not always IMay ; " 
While " Th' Village Blacksmith " slumbers 
Serenely o'er the way. 

" King Christian " tells the story 

Of " Ride of Paul Revere," 
" The Norman Baron " whispers 

In "Lady Wentworth's " ear, 
" The Legend of the Crossbill," 

They cut " Two Locks of Hair," 
" The Wraith of Odin " tells it, 

The " Landlord " cries " Beware ! " 

"The Quadroon Girl" now enters, 
" The Ghosts " are chased away. 
"Miles Standish" says "To-morrow" 
Will be "The Wedding Day." 



116 A MEDLEY. 

" The Old Clock on the Stabs " has stopped ! 

'Tis "Daybreak" now I fear, 
"A Gleam of Sunshine" greets us, 
"The Witnesses" are here. 

" Evangeline ! " why wilt thou 
In " Maidenhood " repine ? 
I offer " Love and Friendship," 
O, let me call thee mine ! 
" Priscilla " turn " Th' Spinning Wheel," 
You'll be "John Alden's wife;" 
We'll smoke " The Peace Pipe " now, friends, 
And sing " The Psalm of Life." 



LINES. 

Written for the fifth anniversary of the marriage of Rev. and 
Mrs. H. A. Stetson, Oct. ISth, 1881. 

Life is an unknown region, over which 

In quick succession, sons of Adam pass, 

Nor e'er their steps retrace, however dark 

The course ahead, or bright may seem the path 

Once trodden. Some, in passing, find their wa}' 

B}^ pleasant streams, through fertile fields and fair, 

Some climb the rugged steep, and walk where yawns 

The frightful chasm, oft stumbling as they go, 

And some through swamps and forests crawl, beset 

By beasts and reptiles loathsome. Others press 

O'er barren, scorching sands. But, whoso will 

Some good may find, an Elim by the way. 

Or Bethel, like the patriarch of old, 

A priceless treasure for the mind to hold. 



118 LINES. 

Five years of close companionship may now 
Our pastor and his wife review. The}'" maj'', 
Perchance, have passed through some ravines, 

where light 
But faintly struggled through o'er-arching gloom, 
And distant thunders growled; but, in the main, 
Have traversed goodly land. And now, we trust 
In pastures green they will be led by Him 
For whom they toil. May fruits abundant fill 
The hands that sow the seed ; and when they 

reach 
The journey's end, may life eternal be 
Their portion, joys transcending these, and bliss 
Unspeakable. May they together sing 
In heav'n the gloiies of their Priest and King. 



THE OLD HOUSE O'ER THE WAY. 

When the toiler's task is ended, 

And the twilight cool and gray, 
On him like a benediction 

Falls, at closing of the day, 
Out of doors, in groups or singly, 

Sit we, looking at the west, 
With its pink and golden splendor. 

Chatting, musing, all at rest. 

The oriole, thrush and redbreast 

Now are out of sight and still. 
But the frogs rehearse their music 

To a distant whip-po-will. 
And the swallows fast are flying 

(Jolly little fellows they), 
Chattering, they dart and flutter 

Round the old house o'er the way. 



120 THE OLD HOUSE O'EB THE WAY. 

But the old house ! Have you seen it, 

Picturesque, and quaint and gray, 
Built when red men came a-prowling 

Down the famous twelve-rod way? 
Strongly built of brick from England, 

White oak timber, iron bolts. 
But a little from the river 

Rocks and ferry, then called Holt's, 

Years before, the stalwart fathers 

Ordered, " a highway be laid 
From the country bridge to ferry, 

Down the valley," and 'twas made. 
Hough the cart-path, wild the forest. 

And adown the Merrimac, 
Swiftl}^ came the birch-bark, bearing 

Savage on the white man's track. 

But the paleface grew and flourished 
All undaunted, went not hence. 

But the Garrison erected, 
For a shelter and defense. 



THE OLD HOUSE O'ER THE WAY. 121 

Thick the walls, and dark the cellar, 
Narrow windings underground, 

Where could linger the faint-hearted, 
While the Indian whooped around. 

Two large chimnej^s, just in fashion, 

Closets, port-holes, attics drear, 
Spacious rooms, where met the Quakers 

In convention, year by year. 
O, the house was well defended! 

Wives and children there could rest, 
And the white man grew and prospered 

While the red man traveled west. 

But the mansion changed its owners; 

Generations came and went ; 
Echoed there the voice of sadness, 

Joy, love, woe and discontent. 
O, the many, many footsteps 

Echoing along the floor ! 
There, to woo her backward lover. 

Went the proud Miss Livermore. 



9 



122 THE OLD HOUSE O'ER THE WAY. 

Made by man, yet man outlasting, 

(If a man's life measured be, 
By his days on earth, so fleeting). 

Old and quaint, yet fair to see. 
Lofty elms reach far above it, 

Nests are hidden by the leaves. 
Smooth the greensward, sweet the lilacs, 

Climbing up to kiss the eaves. 

And that willow, neat and glossy. 

For a century or more, 
Has its yellow catkins scattered 

Lavishly, before the door ; 
'Twas a walking stick, and planted 

In the twilight, by a beau. 
As a token to the lady 

Whom he courted, long ago. 

Could it speak, perchance 'twould tell us 
Some love tales not quite so old ! 

But the sweet words, 'neath its branches 
Whispered, by it are not told. 



TUE OLD nOUSE O'ER THE WAT. 123 

Green the meadow in the background, 
Where the flow'rs all summer blow, 

Green the hillside just beyond it. 
Where the plums and berries grow. 

O, we love the ancient beauty 

Of the place across the way, 
And we often gaze upon it 

At the closing of the day, 
Till the bats come with the darkness. 

Till the night is growing chill, 
And the birds are all a-sleeping. 

Save the plaintive whip-po-will. 



THE LEGACY 

" I am going to make my will," you said. 

With a laugh and jest I turned aside ; 
" O, remember me in jouv will, my friend. 

And give me your old straw hat," I cried. 

Light were the words, but a quiver of pain 

I felt as I quickly walked away. 
And I thought the gift I should most desire. 

Were you to be called from this world to-day- 

I should wish with others the hope to share 
That Christ had welcomed you as his own — 

But I said the gift I should most desire 
To hold and cherish as mine alone. 

Is this — the assurance that naught unkind 
Had resting-place in your thoughts of me. 

So I could know that between us was peace, 
Should 1 live your pale, dead face to see. 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

" Bring in my little one;?, that I may look 
Upon them, once again before I die. 
Death is not far away. A few more days 
And I shall be at rest, and free from pain, 
And they, my children, will be motherless. 
Too 3'oiing are they to realize the loss 
Of mother-love, but tliere will come a time. 
When all in vain, their aching hearts will cry 
For mother, mother-love and sympathy 
Which she alone can give. O little girls ! 
How can I leave you in this cruel world. 
Where fierce temptations oft beset; where life 
Is one long struggle 'twixt the right and wrong, 
And oft the wrong prevails. I hope that tliey. 
My darlings will be valiant in the fight, 
While leaning on the Everlasting Arm, 
Which has been my support. The Arm that will 
Uphold me, wliile I take my last, last look 



126 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

Of their dear faces, press a last fond kiss 
Upon the lips that plaintivel}^ will call, 
Dear mamma, mamma, when I shall be dead. 

God ! forsake me not in this dark hour, 

But some sweet promise through the deep'ning 

gloom 
Like sunshine send, lest I, at thy decree 
Should murmur, being weak. Thou wilt forgive 
The yearning of the mother-heart, thac clings 
So fondly to these helpless ones, for Thou 
Art merciful. Compassionate Thou art 
And dost not willingly afflict. To Thee 

1 leave my children. Thou for them wilt care, 
With love surpassing mine, and knowing this, 

I can lie down in peace." 

Each child was led 
Into the room, and placed upon the bed, 
And closely folded in a long embrace. 
Kissed many times, but only this she said, 
" I want you always to be good." They came. 
Light-hearted, smiling, pleased again to be 
In mother's room: "Is mamma almost well?" 



TUE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 127 

They went with quiv'rmg lips, "Must inamma die?" 
Their father, keeping down his anguish, soothed 
With loving words, their hearts, and they, engaged 
Ere long in childish sports, their grief forgot. 

This painful trial o'er, the mother lay 
With closdd eyes, too weak to think, and save 
The quick chest-heaving, motionless. Her soul 
Communing with its God found peace. The sun 
Low-sinking in the west, shone in and touched 
Her hands, as if to place within, a ray 
Of glory from the world of light unseen. 
From Jenness beach, the dear familiar sound 
Of rising and retreating waves, came like 
The solemn chanting of an evening prayer, 
And lulled her into rest. 

A few short days 
She lingered, bade adieu to other friends. 
And last, to him, her husband: Suddenly 
A radiance o'erspread her features thin. 
And looking upward, she exclaimed, "I see 
The angels, they are coming I " Then she died. 



128 THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

And in the yard near by they made a grave, 
And laid her down to rest ; and ere two years 
Had come and gone, was made another grave 
Beside the first. The liusband by his wife 
Lay sleeping, and, — the children were alone. 
Alone ! and from their happy home, were led 
To walk in diverse paths not always smooth, 
But leading oft o'er jagged rocks, and steep 
And slippery ; and oft the hand out-stretched 
To grasp for aid some wayside branch, would find 
Itself thorn-wounded, and with briars pierced. 
But now and then, a friendly voice would speak 
Words of encouragement and sympathy ; 
Then easy was the way, and firm the step. 
But when Temptation whispered, " Come with me, 
This way is pleasant, walk therein," a voice, 
A tender, pleading voice, would seem to say, 
"I want you always to be good." Then, like 
The lightning's flash, would come a memory 
Of the sick mother's parting kiss, and then 
To heav'n for help, would rise the swift appeal. 
And strength to say, "I will not walk therein," 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 121> 

Would given be. As when, ainono- the hills 
A strain of music clear and sweet, grows faint, 
And fainter, till it dies, these words would seem 
To rise and float into the far beyond; 
•• Thy angel mother guards thee. God has heard 
Her pray'rs. Trust thou in Him. She beckons 

thee, 
O turn not from the way." And then the path 
Led through delightful meadows, glorious 
With light celestial, and the heart grew brave. 



.%.--v 









\.V' 



^•^t- 
<? 



^ir^ 









if^i 









^ ^ ■ - 



.-fe: 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

''lllillllllililflillllL^ 

016 117 839 1 • 



